


Crack Down The Middle

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:27:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1282615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by jkateel on Tumblr: Your Warden and Isabela.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crack Down The Middle

Isabela didn’t know the Warden, not beyond a chance encounter more than seven years before, but when they passed through Denerim, they sought her out.

Zevran hadn’t left Antiva since—well. Since the world went mad. Madder than it had been before, anyway. He was a new leader, after all, and couldn’t risk letting disgruntled Crows get out of hand for the sake of a sentimental trip. So he sent Isabela instructions—orders, more like, for how could she refuse the request of such a dear old friend?—and Isabela, who had nothing better to do than indulge sentimentality these days, picked a spray of wildflowers and elfroot from the countryside and kept them safe until they came upon the Warden.

She didn’t think the woman Zevran had loved would have liked her tomb much, even with all the flowers decorating the cold, hard stone. In some ways, Isabela imagined it suited her; from Zevran’s tales, she’d been a severe woman, harsh and brittle—like the ice she’d once cast from her fingertips—until she warmed to her companions.

Beside her, head bowed, Hawke scuffed at the ground with a booted foot. Isabela could only just make out the fringe of her dark hair beneath her hood. She wore no armor, carried only plain daggers. They could not afford to be recognized so close to Kirkwall.

"What was she like?" the Champion asked, her words soft.

"A terrible card-player," Isabela replied, and her lover snorted. "Rigid. A Warden to the bone. They have this stiff look about their mouths, like they’ll crack down the middle if they try to smile."

Hawke didn’t address that—thinking of Bethany, probably, who’d parted ways with them months ago. “Doesn’t seem like the sort Zevran would fall in with,” she remarked. “He’s too much like you.”

"I don’t understand it, either," Isabela agreed, though it was a lie by half. "He doesn’t talk about it much."

She glanced sideways once more. There was no paint or blood there, but she remembered it vividly, a streak smeared across Hawke’s nose, a snarl of rage locked behind her teeth, duels with qunari and lyrium-addled Knight-Commanders. They had been different sorts of people, the Warden and Hawke, but Hawke had some shred of that self-sacrificial streak that had put the Warden in the ground, or she’d never have agreed to battle the Arishok in single combat.

She drew closer to Hawke, looping her arm through the Champion’s. “I’m glad you aren’t a mage,” she said, thinking of Anders and his vengeance, thinking of Zevran and the light that had gone from his eyes.

"Thank the Maker," Hawke agreed, and touched the marble, as if for luck.


End file.
